rock solid hand

Page


he’s creating stuff
he’s creating so much stuff
maybe lamps that don’t explode
maybe bulbs that dorse glow

maybe sand

walking with his club foot
on the grass, twitching his
chin by drinking his handkerchief.
his rock solid
hand, melted
and gooed, raises
and drops every
time a fool-ly improvement
greets his ideas

He wont sleep
and then he’ll be low
and grab in hand a dear lady pedaling
by him,
and grieve the expression that he
believes in sand & can she
see it, might she support   sand
along with him




………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
war poetry: let the countries fight
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

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